Summers of sorrow, you know,
Good seasons never last.
Where will the birds go,
When nature's plenty is past.
And then you or I,
All our best memory go.
One by one, in the spin that is spun,
A to and fro, moving too slow.
The dew in rainbows are never there,
When I stare hard to look.
The things that make up this life,
Are spooks similarly mistook.
Chance a good change to will, but still,
The harried hopeless misconstrue.
Hope I hear you in your trembling whisper,
But like always I can't see you.
It is a necessary magic in reality, that we are but one entity, our fate intertwined with nature's, although we aren't sure. As it spirals downwards, everything shall follow in its wake. Yet, in the shadows of a changing planet, some like me have the audacity to hold fast to a glimmer of faint hope, a dream of change.
